Cut Loose!
by Phantom-Koinu
Summary: An SSX3 fic centering mainly around Zoe x Psymon, but possibly extending to other characters as well. Please R&R because I love you so much! xD I am particularly proud of chapter 5...
1. Prologue

((A/N: Hello, lovely people! Man, I haven't submitted anything to this site in like… _years._ Anyway, here's a little disclaimer: I don't own anything that has to do with SSX, so yeah.

Oh, also, this fanfiction is set right before SSX 3, and I'm trying to keep the characters as on-target as I can. I've seen too many docile, fluffy Psymons lately, so I'm keeping him crazy! OO

Please read and review, and I'll answer as many comments as I can!))

**Prologue**

"_This is DJ Atomika coming from you live on EA Radio Big! This just in: SSX competitors have been dropped off early this year for some pre-season powder right here on Big Mountain. That's right. While event officials clean up the tracks and, heh, attempt to put things in relative order, competitors will be tearing up the mountain like there is no tomorrow. I've been told that there will be some unofficial events and preliminary rounds, so make sure you check 'em out. For all your Alpine news, stay tuned to Radio Big."_

Big Mountain was getting action early. Locals and tourists alike were already storming up the white slopes and crowding the runs to catch glimpses of the most extreme competitors in the business. The winter season was fast approaching, and it seemed each day left a new layer of crisp, flaky powder sweeter and better than the last. Conditions on Peak 1 were beautiful, Peak 2 was blustery and intense, and the infamous Peak 3, standing over it all, was alive with raging storms once again.

And as for the competitors, they were sure they were living the good life once again. As excitement levels rose towards the coming season, they swarmed the hill with eager anticipation. For now, the rules and boundaries were inconsequential; non-existent, even. They could do as they pleased on the best mountain they could hope for, whether they wanted to grind their boards in half on the slopes or kick back at the lounge. Their condominiums were pre-paid, and 'totally awesome!' as Allegra had put it.

It didn't take much of an imagination to make this place paradise. The gondolas were up and working, and the choppers picked up and dropped off boarders at the most arcane and secluded locations. Big Mountain was ready.


	2. The View!

((A/N: Once again, I don't own SSX or anything related to it. Unfortunately. Anyhow, here were go!))

**The View!**

"_Competitor spotlight on Zoe Payne, for a moment. You know, I heard from a reliable source that Zoe spent the off-season on a series of gnarly biking trips searching for, and I quote, 'balance.' Well, I don't know what that means, but I'm telling you, people, I saw Zoe tearing around Peak 2's 'Schizophrenia, and there is something new going on here, folks. There's something fresh, something totally renewed, and I can't wait to see what she brings to this season's competitions. You can bet we'll be keeping close tabs on Miss Payne. We've got you covered here at Radio Big."_

Zoe snickered, closing up her MCom and sliding it down into the pocket of her baggy pants. MComs were such good, solid creations; you could listen to jams, tune into the radio, and (of course) communicate with any of the competitors, managers, and officials. Sweet.

She stood up and cracked her knuckles, giving her head a roll to loosen the muscles. Standing in the lodge at Peak 2's 'Red Station,' Zoe Payne was thinking that life was alright. The competitors had been up there for little over a week, and she was already having the time of her life. So far, she'd caught up with Moby, chilled with the other competitors, met the newbies, and somehow managed to get smashed at a sponsor party. Or had she? That night was sort of a blur, but she could remember quite clearly telling some manager to "suck it" and grabbing her crotch amidst a fit of drunken giggles. Well, that was Zoe for you; maybe she _had _found whatever 'balance' she had been searching for, but nothing could exorcise that wild streak of hers.

And it was only to be expected. Slipping on a pair of dark-glasses, Zoe looked as much like the good old "Royal Payne" as she ever had. Her hair, which had been dyed and re-dyed so many times over the duration of her life it was a wonder she still had any, was currently chopped rather messily, and shot through with a candy-apple red color, though black at the roots. A green shirt, both sleeves having been ripped off, read "G.I. ZOE" in yellow letters, and her multi-colored pants looked like they'd gotten in a fight with a weed-whacker. A key on a chain hung from her neck, and a black-and-white striped arm-warmer climbed from her fingers to her upper-arm, but she only had one.

The season hadn't even started, but Zoe was psyched as ever. She'd already been up and down most of the mountain (spare a few runs on Peak 3 that were closed and dangerous), and was still anxious to get back out there again. But Zoe was never rushed, never antsy; just pumped and ready, so when she felt the time was right, she grabbed up her board and sauntered on over to the gondolas.

It was drawing on noon, and the sun was beginning to glare, but in Peak 2's back country there was still gray skies and heavy snow. The wind was hard and cold (not cold enough to merit long sleeves, according to Zoe, but then again, when was it?), but that wasn't about to stop her. She was headed for 'Ruthless,' the harsher of runs on Peak 2, and no amount of wind was going to get in her way. And that was that.

So soon enough she was checking the messages on her MCom, reclining lazily across the seats of her empty gondola. Every now and then the compartment would swing gently from side to side as a gust of wind pushed it, but that didn't bother her much. No, Zoe was content to gaze out the window at the contours of the mountain passing by. Soon, she looked up towards the destination of the gondola, but could not see the station at the top. Instead, she took to scrutinizing the windows of the gondola ahead of her, trying to figure out if there was anyone of interest inside.

But it turned out that there was nothing so much of interest _inside_ as _outside_; _on top_, to be exact. For as she examined the gondola, Zoe found that her eyes came to rest on a peculiar and yet familiar form which was quite literally crawling about on top of the gondola itself. A black beater, stretched over a muscular frame and showing the dampness of sweat between the shoulder-blades, exposed a tangle of tattoo-chains which circled the person's left arm and traveled back over the shoulders before disappearing into the shirt. A pair of black pants with a zigzagging brown and white design was accompanied by a thick chain held together by a lock which, although it seemed to be a belt, didn't seem to be holding anything up, and was slung carelessly about his hips. But the dead giveaway was the hair, which looked like it had been styled by a very angry cat.

"Psymon?" Zoe banged on the window. "Hey! Psymon!"

It took a moment, but eventually SSX's resident madman looked over. His pierced lips parted to expose an incredibly toothy grin. Cupping his hands about his mouth, he called something to her, but as he was outside and she was within, his words didn't stand a chance. Zoe motioned to her ears and indicated she couldn't hear him. Not that that stopped him. The entire rest of the ride, he kept it up.

Even when she finally arrived at the top and the doors of the gondola came open, he was still yelling.

"I said, 'THE VIEW'!" came roaring right into her face.

"I'm right here, stupid!" Zoe barked.

Psymon beamed wildly.

There was really no telling with Psymon. Some people said that his odd behavior and seemingly insane antics were just part of a personality which, like an actor, he put on every morning before hitting the slopes. But just as there were those people who said it was a hoax, there was the other wave of people who said Psymon really _was _insane, thanks to being electrocuted while attempting to jump his bike over a telephone wire on a dare. Zoe had a tendency to believe this theory, but if it turned out that it really was an act, he was one damn good actor. He even had that maniacal glint in his eye, and the crooked quirk to his smile. Either way, she rode with him quite a lot. If there was anyone who could tear it up with the same deadly drive and careless determination as Psymon Stark, it was Zoe Payne.

Getting out onto the slopes, Zoe felt the wind pushing at her, and sat down on the snow to strap into her board. Psymon followed suit, and was up before she was. "So what are you doing up here?"

"Competition, Psymon, remem-"

"No, no! I mean _here _here- _Ruthless_ here. Wait. Race me. Race me, race me, race me!"

By this time, Zoe had strapped herself up and, after giving a little hop to make sure she was secured all the way, she shot Psymon a wicked grin and shoved him. "See you at the lodge!" she called.

Psymon righted himself, chuckling, and tore down after her.


	3. Already

((A/N: Heya. Back again for some more SSX3 action? Nice. Buckle up!

CoLLiSiOn – My first (and only) reviewer! Woo! Thanks so much for the kind comments! I'm glad you like my style.))

**Already**

"_That was 'Don't Let the Man Get You Down' by Fatboy Slim. Time for a quick look at our competitors. You know, I think it's official: returning rider Psymon Stark- or 'Sketchy Psymon,' as he's come to be known- no longer classifies as a human being. The Canadian-born monster has been tearing up course after course, and most fans have him pegged as a major player for this year's circuit. This year, his riding is faster, looser… you know, pretty unorthodox. If you see this guy coming down the slopes, well, 'Do not try to comprehend.' Heh heh. More on Stark later, here on Radio Big."_

"Yeeeeowwzah! The sky LOVES me!"

Zoe looked up to see Psymon hurtling through the air ahead, one hand clasped to the edge of his board, his body making a slow turn in the air. Silhouetted against the gloomy-gray blanket of sky, Psymon seemed temporarily frozen in place, floating with an inhuman grace that seemed uncharacteristic of the erratic man. Zoe released an encouraging cheer, but crouched low and felt herself picking up speed. It was still a race, after all.

Losing sight of Psymon over a ridge, Zoe ducked down a small side-route which took her over a few rough patches of ice, and then through a small tunnel. When she emerged again, the sun was breaking through the cloud-cover, as they progressed down the mountain. Cutting back out onto the main run, she heard an angry shout behind her.

"Cheat!" snarled Psymon, buckling down.

Zoe could feel his competitive instincts rising behind her like a flame. Yes, it was still a race. And racing against Psymon, official or not, was a lot like playing with fireworks: dangerous and explosive. Zoe let out a howl. "Catch me if you can!"

"Aw, why don't you choke on it!?"

Neck-and-neck, they bore down on the end of the run, seeing the signs pointing towards 'Red Station,' the both of them grinning through gritted teeth, feeling the pressure of competitive need and the exhilaration of a good run in the sting of the powder against their faces. They were just about to tear down the final slope when a voice rang out above them. Zoe looked up; a figure came shooting off a jump behind them.

"This peak's mine!" came the cry, and the rider landed literally _right _in front of Zoe, who swerved and went down with an 'oof.' It was Nate Logan, one of the rookies, who zoomed past her, surrounded by a splash of white powder, shouting back over his shoulder, "Sorry! Guess I'm gonna beat you both!" Competition was going to be intense this year.

"Hey!"

Zoe watched Psymon tear off after the Colorado big guy without so much as a backwards glance, and rolled her eyes. Typical. She didn't have to worry about catching up with him, though; it would be better to find her glasses first. Besides, Psymon would probably fall off of something or hit a tree; that would be enough to slow him down a little bit. Maybe.

Sitting up, she spat and cleared the snow from her face. "Woo…" she sighed, groping around in the snow until she found her shades. Putting them on, she got up a little sore, and was just about to take off again when something beeped in her pocket. "Shoot." Zoe fumbled for her MCom and opened it up. A message was displayed on the screen: 'New text message.' Zoe checked it out.

'Sponsored party tonight. Dayshack rented out this evening for celebration. Be there.'

"Nice," murmured Zoe, and kicked her board into action, coasting easily back downhill. She rode the curves and ground a rail on the way, before finding her way back to the lodge and detaching herself from her board.

Having found a place to stash her board, Zoe slipped the MCom back into her pocket and strolled inside the lodge once more, looking around. The place was littered with tables and treys, and various counters around the room sold hot food for cold riders. Looking around, Zoe spotted Psymon pressed against a near-by window, both hands on the chilled glass, his breath leaving webs of ghost-like condensation.

Zoe came and sat at a table by him, watched his icy eyes flicker briefly towards her and then back outside, before he pulled himself back and joined her. Pushing the chair back until it balanced precariously on one leg, he leaned back and kept himself upright with one barely grounded foot, rocking slightly.

"You catch Nate?" Zoe asked finally.

Psymon grinned at her, leaning forwards. The chair came down heavily on all fours again, and the tattooed boarder reached out. "Your head looks like a snow cone! Haha!" And he sank his fingers into her hair, ruffling it so a spray of snow scattered everywhere.

"Well, I ate some snow," said Zoe frankly, now that her hair had been made to resemble a red porcupine. "Hey, are you-"

"It's down your shirt, too." He reached forwards in jest.

"The hell is wrong with you?" chuckled Zoe, batting his hand away with a snort of disbelief. "You going to head down to the Shack this evening, or what?"

But Psymon was looking towards the window again. "Hey, Zoe, take a look at that cliff. If I went off the very edge, how many back flips do you think I could-"

"Eighty, and then you'd hit bottom and die. Look, are you going to-"

"That many, huh? That'd be some kind of record."

"Psy, no. What's with you and trying to kill yourself? Hey, you coming to the Dayshack, or what?"

For a moment, Psymon sat smirking, examining the tattoos on his arm. "Why? What's there?"

"I dunno. Everyone. Everyone's heading out there. More sponsor stuff. We're going to groove to some tunes, drink… you know, that stuff."

"Drinking and dancing!" Psymon whistled. "Why am I just finding out about this now?"

"Check your MCom," answered Zoe flatly, putting her boots up on the table and stretching her arms above her head.

Psymon watched the fabric of her shirt move. G.I. Zoe. _His _MCom, however, had no messages, spare one from earlier that day, courtesy of one of his sponsors. 'Mr. Stark, Please refrain from injuring tourists or, we regret to inform you, the sponsorship is off.' It was an empty threat. Besides, it wasn't his fault tourists fell over whenever anyone cut a curve too close to them.

He showed Zoe, exclaiming loudly, "Aw, I'm so hurt! Tch. Please." He rolled his eyes. "Buuut, you're still going to take me along, eh? I promise I'll be a good boy." The grin was back.

Zoe cocked a brow. "Why do _I_ have to take you? I'm just going to take the Red Line shuttle."

Psymon stretched his arms and wrinkled his nose. "Eh. I'm banned from the Red Line."

Zoe chuckled and shook her head. "Already?"

Psymon looked proud. "Oh yeah."

"Should've expected that." Shifting, Zoe sighed and cast an absent-minded glance around the room. "Alright, I'm heading out. I'll see you this evening. You'll have to find your own ride."


	4. Taxi

((A/N: Hello again. I still have nothing to do with SSX. Just going to give you a heads up: Kaori's in this chapter, so there's some Japanese here and there. Translations are italicized in parentheses directly under the dialogue or the paragraph in which the dialogue occurs. And I apologize for Moby's… er… selective accent. I couldn't figure out how to write it out completely without making it impossible to understand what he's saying.

CoLLiSiOn – Thanks again! x3

DemonicMelody – Wow, thanks. I know what you mean about the whole Zoe being persona-less. I'll do my best to keep her personality intact! Ack, the pressure's on!))

**Taxi**

"… _And speaking of Mac Fraser, you know, an impromptu rail-grinding session between Mac and Psymon Stark came to an abrupt end earlier on today. Psymon and a… well, a taxi ended up butting heads. The cab was sent to the shop, but, you know, Psymon will be ready tomorrow. I guess we'll crown Mac the winner? Hey, I've got it on pretty good authority that the Dayshack is hosting yet another sponsor party. Hopefully this time no locals will attempt to, heh, infiltrate the celebration like they did last time. But if they do, I guess we can have Nate throw them out again. Good work, Logan. Good work. Stay tuned to Radio Big." _

The competitors exploded into sound. Some laughed, others rolled their eyes and clicked their tongues, and others gaped at one another, not quite sure how to respond. Upon Mac Fraser's arrival, The Dayshack's music had been muted as he announced, "Yo, hook up some Radio Big; they're talking about me!" So he and Kaori had instantly gotten the radio all tuned up, and the competitors, at first resentful of Mac's overblown ego, had muttered discordantly. But little by little, they found themselves listening intently, until at last the station took a little commercial break, and the SSX stars took over the job of making noise.

Zoe slapped her knee, tossing her head back and laughing hard and loud. "That's seriously badass The cab's in the shop, but Psymon will be back _tomorrow!"_

Moby rolled his eyes over a glass of something bubbling. Chuckling, he replied, " 'E's actually crazy- out of 'is mind. I swear it. Ah well, I guess we won't be seein' Psymon tonigh'. " And he and Zoe laughed with each other.

Elise looked crosswise at them and then away, cocking a curvaceous hip so the rookies could tell exactly who the Queen Bee around here was.

Kaori shook her head slowly, disapproval in her face. "Takushi? Kirai desu… yakuza…" but she brightened. "Demo… Mac is number one!" And she put up a finger to show it. Mac beamed all over her, puffing up with pride.

_('Taxi? I don't like it… thug… but… Mac is number one!')_

Griff, meanwhile, was imitating Nate showing the two locals who had gotten into the party last time to the door. With childish and playful exaggeration, he knocked two invisible beings senseless and gave them a rough heave-ho as Allegra and Viggo looked on. It seemed that the rookies were taking to each other, finding that there was strength in newbie-numbers. It was only natural. Griff was bouncing. "It was just like that, huh, Nate? It was, huh?"

Nate gave the boy a little push on the head with two fingers, a throaty chuckle escaping his lips. "Sure. It was something like that." But he was scoping out the scene, sizing up the competition with a coolness in his eyes. He'd built his own bridges and gotten himself into the SSX through pure determination and hard work, now he had to hold on to it and ride right up to the top. For Colorado's Nate Logan, the season had already started. He only looked up when Elise Riggs' lithe form came swaying into view.

"So you're Nate Logan?" she murmured, her baby-blue eyes stirred by a tint of predatory stimulation. She tipped an imaginary hat to him. "Howdy, cowboy. _I'm_ Elise Riggs."

Conversation carried on as the music started up again. Camera-bulbs flashed and hands were shaken. That was what sponsor parties were about: grinning and rubbing people the right way; seeing who might make a line of gear with your name on it, or who would pour some more dough into the SSX Circuit. The people behind Mountain Dew, for example, were most highly praised. It was good publicity, and plenty of brands trying to get riders to demo their boots; it was billboard negotiations and commercial pushes. Officials and event organizers were at the tops of their games. In a way, the riders themselves weren't really the focus of the parties, but sort of like scenery: inescapable and needed, but a backdrop. However, it was pretty much a given that the competitors were going to act out (this _is_ the SSX, after all), and so any and all wide-grinning hand-shaking spokespeople had to arm themselves, so to speak, for the events of the night.

So there was schmoozing and socializing. Allegra had dragged a representative from some odd company out onto the dance floor (as she had said, "Men- can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em), and a few others had followed suit. Zoe stuck her tongue out for a camera man and Moby flexed; Kaori was engaged in an adorable, hopping sort of dance, flashing the peace sign and a pristine smile for anyone who'd call out her name. So caught up was the little Japanese girl, that she didn't notice a particular form creeping up behind her; not until it was too late, that is. Zoe could see the realization dawning on her, her bright eyes becoming slightly hazy as she suddenly thought 'who is standing so close behind me?'

Poor Kaori turned around just in time to receive a loud, indescribable, but decidedly inhuman noise, as well as the most terrifying face its creator could muster. Even Viggo, standing at a distance and paying no mind to the bubbly Go-Go Geisha jumped, pulling Allegra in front of himself for "just in case" protection.

"Tasukete!" shrieked Kaori, throwing her hands over her head. "Satsujin!"

_('Help! Murder!')_

But it wasn't murder. It was Psymon, and as far as anyone knew, 'Psymon' and 'murder' had never crossed paths, though many wouldn't put it past him. And there he stood, Arms folded across his chest, looking undeniably pleased with himself, one eyes slightly larger than the other. But what was strangest was his clothing. His pants were ripped and torn (though that lock-and-chain belt was still there), a paper bracelet with a number on it circled his wrist, and moreover, he wore an ugly green hospital gown. Sporting a fresh shiner, Psymon looked happy as could be, and that half-homicidal glint was flaring up reliable as ever in his icy eyes. Fresh stitches lined one arm, and a bit of plastic tubing, thin and pliable as could be, dangled down from beneath a piece of gauze taped just above his wrist.

Zoe stared. Never a dull moment with Psymon around.

"Is that from an… _IV Drip_?" Someone murmured, indicating the bit of tubing.

"Hey, it's Stark!" chortled another.

"What's he doing here?" Another muttered, glancing furtively over.

Flashbulbs went wild.

"Alright! Who's buying!?" cried Psymon, looking around for someone to pin an arm around and drag away. Someone would buy him a drink, right? Having spent more than enough time under the sufficiently aggravating fluorescents of a hospital, the tattooed Wildman was feeling just about pent-up enough to get sloppy drunk and spend the rest of the night unaccountable for his own actions. If they bought him enough, maybe he'd even jump off of something.

A song-change brought about a faster beat. Psymon froze. Alienated by the others in the party, and standing stiff and still, he looked about as deranged as a rabid dog. "Psymon says: everyone on the dance floor!"

The command was reluctantly obeyed, leaving a rather large ring of space around the untamed competitor, who was instantly and frighteningly in the groove. Later, Atomika would describe his dancing as 'tornado-like,' and it was no understatement. You couldn't really call it anything, either; it had no category. Maybe break-dancing would come the closest to describing it, merely because he seemed to become an athletic blur of flailing limbs- head over heels and visa versa. Even Zoe didn't dare get too close, for fear of losing an eye or just generally getting inadvertently manhandled.

"Psymon!" she shouted over the noise. "Psymon!"

No response.

"HEY, PSYMON!"

His whirlwind of movement came to an abrupt halt, nearly knocking him off balance. "Bushwhacked…" he muttered to himself, then turned angrily to see who had thrown him off. "Who broke my concentration!?" But it was Zoe.

The punkette was not to be intimidated; she was used to it. "How'd you get here?" she shouted.

Psymon winked. "Taxi." And he began again to dance.

By the end of the night all of the furniture had been pushed back against the walls, and there still didn't seem to be enough space.


	5. Good Morning

((A/N: Well, what do you know? I'm still pumping out chapter after chapter. I thought I'd give us a little break from the seemingly Zoe-centric core of my story and give a bit of Psymon's side of story. Dig in, er… I mean, enjoy!

Misa luv L and Ino luv Shika – Thank you so, so much! I'm really glad you like it, and I hope it holds together.))

**Good Morning**

"_Good morning, Big Mountain. This is EA Radio Big, high above SSX's 3-Peak circuit. We'll have all the newest developments for you right here, right now; anytime and all the time; now and forever. Heh, you get the idea. Here's a little announcement just in from Big Dan's General Store: whomever piled all of last night's snow in front of the door is asked, please, to, uh, 'kindly remove it.' Yeah, Big Dan's not too happy about that. But speaking of last night's snow, the slopes are looking more than excellent today, conditions are perfect, and the powder is sweet. Do me a favor, people: since I have to be at work, go carve it up for me, huh? Please? You know you want to."_

No one saw things the way Psymon Stark did. No one ever would. Maybe it was for the better; maybe it was for the worse. Psymon didn't know. Psymon didn't particularly care, either. All Psymon knew was that each day wore on the same way, in the same haggard routine. Day after day after day, life went on.

_It is morning time. Wake up, Psymon._

But no, never getting up when he should, just lying and staring up, searching the cracked plaster on the ceiling, or watching the plastic blinds filter dry sunlight in little bars, not wanting to fall asleep, but not wanting to be conscious.

'He can't feel pain,' everyone always said. 'The electrocution did something to his nerves. He doesn't feel it.'

_No pain, no gain, huh?_

But did he feel other things? Did he feel the softness of the pillow against his cheek, or the comforting downy fluff of his covers? No, the pillow had a large bite taken out of it, and had been tossed to the ground, and the covers were twisted violently around his legs and waist. No one could be comfortable like that. But no one cared about that. 'He can't feel pain,' they always said.

_Get up! Get up!_

And he could not tell if it was his own voice or his father's, rolling now, and tumbling from the mattress onto the itchy carpet with the little fibers that seemed to crawl like bugs under his skin and beginning to laugh. Sure now that it was his father's voice echoing with grinding authority in his head, the Wildman arched convulsively, reaching out to grope beneath his bed for a hard, unforgiving square, thrown down into the darkness last night. His hand scraped across it, clutched at its corner, and drew it before his face. A picture frame: simple, with the glass broken. There they were, frozen in a coffee-stained print: father, mother, and son. And he saw the ghost of the devil on the father's face and laughed at him, right in his face, and pointed at him, and told him how he could see, how he could see the ghost on his face. His own laughter ringing in his ears, he bore his teeth to hold it back and tossed the photograph, not watching where it fell but knowing he would find it the next morning and laugh at it and curse at it again, and again the next morning, and the morning after that.

_Take your pills, Psymon. They want you to take your pills._

Still laughing, still in spite of it all, he rose to obey the command. But no- get dressed first. The pants slid on, and the shirt. Decency was maintained, though perhaps overrated. The lock-and-chain belt had not been removed; he had forgotten the combination, or had never known it in the first place. It fit with his other chains, however. All of them, even the ones only he could see. No one else saw things the way he saw them.

With a grating, cackling sound, the blinds were drawn open. Outside the snow reflected morning sun, bouncing it right back through the window and into his eyes, pill-white.

_Take your pills, Psymon. They want you to._

And they _did_ want him to, and they always would. The last of his chuckles dying away, he pushed open the door to his bedroom and paced to the bathroom, leaning instantly on the sink-counter to steady himself. After a while, laughing translated to fatigue. Other people would have said they laughed so hard, it hurt. But then, it took much more for Psymon to feel pain, didn't it?

The counter was sticky and slippery. Soap suds and various gels coated the faux-marble surface, and the sink had the remnants of toothpaste from yesterday morning, and beard-shavings like little bristles. The shower door was open, and a towel lay on the floor, half-soaked. Psymon's hands moved slowly across the counter. Which pills first? Order didn't matter. Sometimes he thought he'd like to play games and take only a few of them, or only several of one kind- just to see what happened. But he never could. He could never choke them down. Who cared why?

But each morning had to be the same. The orange canisters and their little pills, red and orange and pink and white, always were there, and he always reached out and poured one little pill into the palm of his hand, and looked into the mirror- glaring, intent- hard into his own icy eyes, seeing if he could see deep enough; seeing if he could find the crazy part.

Raising the pill, he snaked it with his tongue and pushed it to the very back of his mouth. Several times, he swallowed, but the pill stayed put, and only the warm wash of saliva traveled down his throat. He worked his tongue against the roof of his mouth like a dog with peanut-butter, trying to push the pill back even further. Another swallow, and finally it began to go down, but he doubled over, retching and hacking until the little pill, snowy-white as candy, made a clattering circle around the inside of the sink and fell down the drain. They wanted him to take the pills, and they had prescribed a lot; maybe not enough, they had feared, after such trauma to the system. But if he was crazy, why wouldn't they let him be crazy? Psychotic, and a lunatic, Psymon's reflection grinned wider than the Cheshire-cat.

_Are you going to be insane today too?_

It was hardly ever lonely. There were plenty of other Psymons. The Psymon in the bathroom mirror, for example, was one; the Psymon in the glass windows of stores and shops was another. And there was the Psymon on the tabloid covers, and the Psymon in the melting puddles, and little _Simon_ in the picture too, with the ghost of the devil on his father's face.

And if there wasn't that, then there was the roar of snow and ice beneath his board, and the adrenaline pounding in his ears, and the sounds of his own wicked laughter rising up like wolves to run beside him, and the swell of a jump ahead, and the churning of his muscles beneath him, and then the isolation and elevation, sailing high overhead and looking down towards reality- looking down towards the place where people walked with both feet on the ground. And all the time, there is that voice, murmuring steadily to him:

_Maybe today you go too far, Psymon. Maybe today you kill yourself. Maybe today, it hurts._


End file.
